


Unnatural Acts

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, D/s, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, M/M, Oral Sex, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:16:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some acts just don't seem natural to Sebastian Moran.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unnatural Acts

  It’s not natural.  It is, in fact, one of the most unnatural things in the world – for the great hunter; the cocky, arrogant gunman to be bound like this, unable to see anything. Though he’s straining to hear, the clock is ticking, the fire crackles, the rug on the floor muffles things and the professor’s movements are light – light as a cat’s, despite him being taller and bulkier than Moran.

   Moran’s trembling a bit. It’s not fear, exactly, but he’s prepped to fight or flee only he can’t actually do either right now so he’s just stuck here, nowhere to go; nothing to do, except whatever the professor tells him to do, but the professor still isn’t saying anything and that’s bloody unnerving.

   “I would like us to play a new game tonight, Sebastian,” he’d said, when Moran was just beginning to doze off, quite comfy thank you, lying on his side on the sofa with his head in the professor’s lap.

   “Right, sir,” he’d said. “Anything particular?”

   “Oh I have one or two ideas in mind.”

   Of course he’d agreed, and it didn’t seem so new, being told to strip and kneel down on the rug; Moriarty had told him to do that, or variations of that, often enough. Then however the professor had wandered off somewhere and told him to stay there and not move; not to turn around, but that was still all right. Moriarty often tested his obedience so, but then he’d come back, behind Moran, and black cloth was abruptly slipped over his eyes. Moran couldn’t help it; instinctively he’d reached up at once to pull the blindfold away from his face.

   “Ah, no,” Moriarty had chided him. “Put your hands down, Moran.”

   “Sir, I…”

   “You’re afraid?” Moriarty asked, and he didn’t sound concerned, exactly, only questioning, but it was that serious tone of voice that said – without words – that he’d stop if Moran told him to stop.

    “Course not.” Moran put his hands down. It just wasn’t usual, was all; having any of his senses cut off. To a man like the professor who lived half the time in his head anyway, maybe that would be fine but to a man like Moran who had to know all about his surroundings to be able to calculate where the danger lay or how to best reach the target, it wasn’t pleasant, and Moriarty knew that. He knew it when he tied the blindfold in place; knew it too when he gripped Moran’s wrist and tugged it behind his back and slid the metal cuff around it.

   Moran had flinched at the touch of the metal, his whole body going tense.

   “Sebastian,” Moriarty said, still holding Moran’s arm, below the bracelet of the cuffs, rubbing his thumb over Moran’s skin. The other empty bracelet dangled down. “We do not need to continue playing this game.”

     Moran swallowed thickly. “Sir, I do… I want to. It’s just… you startled me.”

   “Put your left arm back,” Moriarty instructed, and Moran did; let his wrists be cuffed together behind his back in that most awkward and unnatural position. He was still tense as he was bound there, but Moriarty was close, his breath warm against Moran’s bare skin, his fingers tracing patterns over it. Moran was all right while Moriarty was there, touching him. Even when he passed the rope around Moran’s ankles, tying them together, then tying his bound ankles to his handcuffed wrists, he was all right. It was when Moriarty left him that the panic started to flutter in his chest.

    “Professor?” he’d called out, when he felt Moriarty pull away from him; worse, back away entirely, but the man didn’t answer him. If he’d told Moran to do something, even just sit there quietly and wait for hours, maybe that would be all right; that would be different, but he didn’t say anything more before he slipped away.

   Moran’s still kneeling there, sure he’s not meant to try to move, but it’s been too long and he feels vulnerable, acutely aware of his own nakedness and that if anyone was to walk in on him now they could just kill him, easy as breathing, and he’d not be able to do a damned thing about it. He’s not merely a caged tiger – even a tiger in a cage can still claw through the bars - he’s a bound and blinded one. He could possibly get up and he knows his way around this room well enough that he might be able to move around it without hurting himself too much but, then what? Then where’s he supposed to go?

   Nowhere. He’s meant to go nowhere.

   He bows his head and tries to think; slows his breathing; focuses on calming himself. The professor did not actually tell him to stay and not to try escaping from his bonds but then he did not tell him to move either, so he will stay quietly because the professor will come back for him and there’s no need to try to run and nothing to fight but his own panic. Moran just wishes the man would hurry up about it; it makes him unpleasantly edgy, having to wait and do nothing, not even knowing what he’s supposed to be doing or what’s expected of him.

   After a bit he tests the cuffs again. He did at first, of course, but now he tries harder, testing their resistance, but Moriarty would never have slapped useless handcuffs on him. He can’t get out of them without a key or maybe without trying to dislocate a thumb, and that option seems a bit drastic at present. As for the ropes on his ankles, they’re tight – not so tight that they’ll cause him damage, but definitely tight enough to make movement difficult.

   A bead of sweat trickles down his back. He feels colder now, even though he’s close to the fire. He bows his head further, hating the blindfold but unable to shift it without the use of his hands. It’s a good one (of course it would be) and he can’t see even the firelight or candlelight through it.

    He wishes again that Moriarty would hurry up and get on with whatever the rest of this game is. The man has his strange whims and queer ideas and Moran has never yet refused to play along with any of them, but this one is starting to get too much. If the professor has just gone and buggered off and left him here, starting to shiver… what if he’s forgotten? What if something else caught his attention – some sudden flash of inspiration for his latest pet theorem? And now he’s forgotten about poor Colonel Moran, still kneeling there stark bollock naked on the tiger skin rug.

    Except Moran never actually heard him leave the room, which is important, yet he can’t hear him breathing or moving. Even with the ticking of the clock and the crackling of the fire and even though he knows that Moriarty can be unnervingly still and quiet when he wants to be, surely Moran would have heard  _something_  from him by now, if he was still here?

   He strains again to hear anything. Still nothing, he thinks, except _then…_

   The faintest tapping, as of a finger tapping against the arm of the sofa, perhaps.

   “Professor?” he says.

   No answer, but the tapping ceases.

     Moran tilts his head, trying to listen for anything else. When the next noise comes though it’s from a different direction, and his unseeing gaze automatically snaps over to try to find the source. Did the professor just cough a little?

    He doesn’t call out this time. He doesn’t want to look desperate, after all, but this is worse than the silence. He knows Moriarty is there now but he can’t tell where. The next noise, the faintest footfall, comes from the opposite side of the room. He feels disorientated (and probably the whisky he drank earlier doesn’t help much).

   Moran tries to shift position slightly. He can kneel for a long time but it’s still not comfortable to do so naked and with his hands pinned behind his back. He doesn’t like this much any more. There’s anticipation and then there’s waiting there feeling like a lamb waiting to be slaughtered. He’s about to try to get up, cuffs and ropes be damned, when a hand brushes his cheek. He’s so startled he nearly falls over backwards, except then another hand grips his shoulder and drags him forward.

   “All right, Moran; come here,” the professor says, his voice firm but gentle enough, and he draws Moran to him. “Hold very still,” he says, as he takes out a sharp knife, although of course Moran can’t see it, or anything still. He cuts through the ropes binding Moran’s ankles – easier than picking undone the knots – although he leaves the handcuffs and blindfold on. “Now, here,” he commands, drawing Moran over towards the sofa.

   Overwhelmed with relief at not being ignored now, Moran lets himself be pulled, on his knees still, between the professor’s legs. When Moriarty’s hand tightens painfully in his hair and forces his head down between his thighs he lets that happen too and he doesn’t care that it’s rough. When the professor shoves himself into Moran’s mouth, that’s fine with him. He knows how to do this, even with his hands still bound; this is right; this is normal, and the professor’s strong legs are either side of him, bracing and balancing him while he sucks, and he’s so glad to have that contact again.

   “Good boy,” Moriarty says, his fingers twining in Moran’s hair, mussing it up. Moran’s beard brushes against his inner thighs as the sniper takes him deeper into his mouth, and Moriarty likes that; likes the sensations; likes Moran’s confidence about doing this, even blindfolded and handcuffed. He seems so  _grateful_  to be close to him, yet eager, not cowed; not afraid. Once if Moriarty had tried to blindfold or cuff him Moran would have fought him outright and never let himself be treated so. Now though his trust in the professor is absolute and he’ll submit, sometimes a little doubtfully at first, but willingly. Had Moriarty made him kneel there any longer without any contact or even a word of reassurance, Moran would have started to panic properly then, the professor knows, but he was watching Moran intently all the while, judging the moment at which it was necessary to intervene before Moran switched from uneasy but accepting to being spooked.

   When Moriarty comes it’s hot and bitter in Moran’s throat but he swallows all of it down keenly enough, until finally Moriarty withdraws from him. The professor carefully buttons his trousers back up before he reaches down to remove the blindfold.

   The gunman blinks against the comparative brightness a few times and then looks up at him. His lips are reddened and his hair is all over the place and he looks, well, thoroughly shameless. “Sir?” he says, jangling the cuffs behind his back a little. “Do you think you could take these off now?” The way these games usually go, he’ll probably be expected to go and take care of his own arousal himself and he needs his hands free for that.

   “I think… not,” Moriarty says. “We have not yet finished. There is still a small matter to take care of.”

   Moran follows the line of his gaze down. “Hey!” he protests. “That is  _not_  a small matter!”

   Moriarty raises his eyebrows at him, before giving a faint little smile. “Come here.” He grips Moran by the forearm, pulling him up, over onto his lap.

   “Professor, I can do this myself, if you’d just-”

   “Shh.” Moriarty leans forward and kisses him, apparently caring nothing for the taste of himself on Moran’s tongue, while he drops his hand and wraps it around Moran’s prick. The colonel is already close to the edge, taking care of Moriarty’s pleasure usually being enough to provoke his own lust, and he groans into the professor’s mouth at the touch. This elicits a smirk from Moriarty at this reaction as he pumps him, increasing in speed and intensity, until Moran can’t bear it any more.

   “Professor, oh god, I…” His forehead is pressed to Moriarty’s; his eyes screwed tight shut when he comes, spending into the professor’s hand. Only when it’s over does he open his eyes and look at Moriarty again. The professor seems amused still by his reaction, and he claims another kiss before setting Moran aside, pushing him down onto the sofa.

   Moran sits there, his body twisted awkwardly with his hands still cuffed behind him. He watches and waits patiently though while Moriarty takes care of the more important task of wiping his hand clean. Then, and only then, does the professor retrieve the key to the handcuffs and finally free Moran.

   “Well, my dear Moran,” he says, setting the cuffs aside and taking Moran’s hands in his. The metal bracelets have made grooves in the colonel’s skin and now Moriarty carefully rubs at the marks. “How did you find this evening’s experience?”

    Moran looks thoughtful.   “It was… interesting, sir.”

   “You lasted a little over an hour before you were on the verge of panicking,” Moriarty informs him. In comparison to some of the other occasions where he has deprived Moran of contact, it was almost nothing, but on those occasions Moran had not been blindfolded and bound, nor made to remain in one spot without having been issued a command first. In truth the professor is pleased that Moran lasted so long in such circumstances. “Come here,” he says, catching hold of Moran’s chin; drawing his face close. He kisses him softly on the lips. “You’ll sleep in my bed tonight,” he informs the gunman after a moment.

   “Right, Professor.” Moran seems slightly less keen on this idea than on the whole being bound and blindfolded business, but he’ll not protest at this.

   “Go and get ready for bed.”

   “Yes sir.”

   Moriarty dismisses him with a wave of his hand, intending to say no more, perhaps not even until the next morning, save for bidding Moran goodnight once they are in his bed. However as he watches Moran walk away, something tugs at him; makes him call out, “Sebastian.”

   “Yes sir?” Moran asks, turning back.

   “I am pleased with you; that you put your trust in me tonight.”

    “Well… I’m glad of that,” Moran says, apparently uncertain as to how he should respond to this. He likes praise but he’s rather more comfortable with being told his aim with a rifle is good or something of that nature than anything like this.

   “You did well.”

   Maybe Moriarty imagines it, or maybe it’s just the lingering flush of their physical activities, but he thinks Moran’s cheeks go a bit pink. “Thank you, sir,” he says. His gaze remains on Moriarty’s for a beat too long, and now Moriarty finds himself flushing a little.

   “Go now, go and prepare for bed; shoo!” he says, and Moran chuckles and scurries away to wash now.

   Moriarty watches him go, fondly.

 


End file.
